It's Rain, Sherlock
by randomtuna13
Summary: Rationality is executed once you're facing losing and mourning. [angst]


" **It's Rain, Sherlock."**

* * *

 **disclaimer :**

Sherlock Holmes and any characters in it © Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, as TV series © BBC

I gained no financial advantages from this fanfiction.

 **warning :**

modified canon, OOC

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

Mrs. Hudson knows she can do nothing.

Beside, there is no use to do anything right now. Nothing can pull of the room renter in her house, change. Nothing can pull him out, out from his suffering.

Don't get her wrong, but she had tried. She had tried to make the man who sat on and stared blankly upon his fireplace, to speak. She comes to his room every half hour to offer him a cup of tea. Mrs. Hudson is not a landlady, of course. But still. She can't help to see this man, be quiet. No talk. No words. So soundless.

This man didn't turn off her offering. He ignored her —completely _ignored_ her. Mrs. Hudson wasn't rejected. She was ignored. Nothing's more painful than being ignored. Although she can predict his reaction, she won't give up.

She pretends there's nothing wrong happened. She still does shopping twice like every day. Once for herself; once for the man who lived upstairs. He never asked for that, but Mrs. Hudson is never absent to fulfill his refrigerator. Milk, fresh veggies, and breads. She fulfills it, ignored the fact that that man would do nothing to make it a proper food.

The man, who sits quietly in the sofa, never touched it. He never seemed to drink a cup of tea which Mrs. Hudson prepared for him. He never seemed to eat anything. Or sleep. Move. Walk. Go Out.

He is just... _motionless._ Laid his blank stare upon the dead fireplace.

John Watson can be defined as _died._

.

.

.

"How is he, Mrs. Hudson?"

Detective Inspector Lestrade is one of few people who never absent to ask how John is going. Lestrade always have a little time to step on Baker Street 221B, among his busy work time.

Mrs. Hudson shook his head, sadly. "Oh, Mr. Lestrade. He is still the same."

Lestrade took a deep breath. He doesn't like to see that Sherlock Holmes's partner lost himself. When Sherlock passed away, he knew that something big is going to be happened. Or change. Exclude those squawks about the degradation of police's workship; this John's problem is another result.

Along his career, maybe that was the first time Lestrade saw someone who could bring a great change upon that world's only consultant detective. Lestrade knew Sherlock well, but not that close to be his best friend. He was just a partner for Sherlock. Colleague. Even probably, Sherlock considered him as his patient or client —he had very complicated mind, indeed.

But, John is _different_.

John Watson is not just a flat-mate for Sherlock. Or his doctor partner in his business. Or anything depends on how it called. The bound between Sherlock and John is stronger than that. Stronger than friend. Stronger than best friend. Closer to brother. And in fact, thing happened in vice versa.

"Why doesn't he just move out, Mrs. Hudson?" Lestrade asked.

"Oh, I don't know." Mrs. Hudson glanced to upstairs. "I think, this place must leave many memories. Too many memories. However, they had shared their life here."

 _They had shared their life…_ those words repeated in his head. He understands it well. When the one died, the other one _followed the path_. As if their life is bounded as one, as they shared their life.

Suddenly, a drop of water fell upon Lestrade's nose, surprised him.

"It's rain, Mr. Lestrade." Mrs. Hudson opened her door wider. "Come in, I can make you a cup of hot tea."

Lestrade pulled his coat, tried to avoid the raindrops. With a hand over his face, he said a little bit louder, "I am so sorry, Mrs. Hudson. But, I'm better going back to work. There are something—"

He never finished his sentences. He and Mrs. Hudson were too stunned as seeing a masculine figure ran down the stairs in hurry and hasten his steps straight to the opened door. In his hand, hanged a dark blue coat.

Without saying any words on the surprise around him, John Watson went out and ran under the rainfall.

.

.

.

Mrs. Hudson never been this regretful. She is old and had enough about anything to do with feelings. She had done with them. She is a woman, indeed. But she has old enough, for God's sake. She didn't spend her time running in cold, until this far to turn her face.

Lestrade, as police officer, always tries to keep his feelings and any sentiments not to interfere his rationality. But this was different. Hurried up, even forget to grab any umbrellas; he took Mrs. Hudson's hand. Took that not-young-anymore-lady to run after someone. Running in heavy rain, just to regret.

 _What has possessed me?_ He asked to himself. He should not put Mrs. Hudson in this problem to accomplish his curiosity. It was his fault, the woman who stood beside him turned herself and couldn't stop rubbed her face. Couldn't tell, whether that was raindrop or tears.

"You won't get wet, Sherlock."

Mrs. Hudson covered her face. The sound of raindrops that hit the grassed ground and gravestones couldn't blur her quiet sobbing. But, Lestrade chose not to hear it. His eyes stare sharply on the figure that kneeled on his knees in front of a black marble gravestone. His hands were raised, keeping the dark-blue coat up to avoid the rain.

"I handled it for you, Sherlock. I won't let you get rained."

That figure who wore white sweater and faded-blue jeans talked. Loud enough to conquer the rainstorms, as if to make sure that whoever he was speaking to, hear him properly. His head faced down, staring at rose bouquet laid upon that black marble gravestone.

"Look, Sherlock. The flowers I gave you yesterday, it's still fresh."

Mrs. Hudson sobbed harder. Her wet body, shiver. Her teeth chattered. Lestrade felt her trembling wrinkle hands touch him. He turned his head.

"I couldn't take it anymore, Mr. Lestrade." She pleaded. "Please, take me home."

He can't let Mrs. Hudson like this. He helped Mrs. Hudson to turn around. Before they left the graveyard, he glanced at the man who brought them here. For a while, he was stricken by sentimental complexity.

 _This is how losing people looked like. This is how mourning he was. When_ _the one died, the other one followed the path. Their life bounded._

John Watson still kneeled on his knees, avoided the water from dropping on Sherlock's gravestone. He wouldn't go anywhere, until this heavy rain is over.

 _Rationality is executed once you're facing losing and mourning._

When Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson stepped out the gate to walk out, among the raindrops and storms, they could hear John's voice brought by the wind.

"It's rain, Sherlock. But don't worry, I'm here for you."

.

.

.

.

.

 **fin**

.

.

.

.

.

 **a/n :**

I just died knowing that the boy I adored while I (finally) watched Star Wars is the famous Darth Vader. Where did my lil cutie Anakin go? Aww, poor Padme :'/ I've shipped you with Obi-Wan but you didn't listen to me :'/

Pardon my randomness

This fic was inspired by a trashy re-draw fanart which I posted on IG and tumblr. I never expected to get a response to publish this fic. I've originally written this in Bahasa Indonesia, so pardon my English here. I couldn't spare between US English and British English, so there's maybe some mistakes here. Mind to RnR? '-')/


End file.
